Miles to Go
by Haelia
Summary: Meechum is unwell. Frank notices.


Even with the A/C on, the house was sweltering in the mid-September heat. The air was so thick you could swim through it. You could almost see the hundred-year-old floorboards warping under the weight of the humidity. Or maybe it was just Edward. Yeah, he thought, could just be me. He had the faintest sense that nobody else was this bothered by the weather. But then, perhaps it wasn't the weather at all. Perhaps it was just this damn tie. Stupid thing. How could anybody be expected to dive in front of a bullet in a fucking tie?

Edward hated extremes in temperature. Too hot and he felt slimy; too cold and it was almost painful to move. He ought to have been used to it after four tours overseas. People's minds always go to a stifling desert when they think of Afghanistan, but that isn't the whole story. It gets cold at night, freezing cold. People don't know about that, so much.

"Meechum?"

"Sir." He hated himself for the way he nearly jumped at the sound of his own name. He snapped to, military style, heels together, stomach in - _ouch_.

"Did you hear me say we're going down to the car? What's the matter with you?" Mr. Underwood was coming back down the hallway, his fine shoes clicking loudly on the oak floors. He was frowning - never a good sign with Frank.

To tell the truth, Edward had neither heard his charge speak nor noticed him walk right past. He felt shame at having to be told twice. When had he ever been such an idiot? "Nothing, sir," he replied, a little too slowly. "My apologies, sir."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Underwood, before Meechum had even finished apologising. "You're white as a sheet. Come properly inside and sit down before you fall down, Meechum, right now."

"Thank you, sir, I'm fine, really." Though now all of a sudden he felt impossibly cold. Someone must have noticed how hot it was and cranked up the A/C.

Frank had stopped in front of him now, was standing uncomfortably close. He stared hard at Meechum and then, unexpectedly, pressed a hand to the side of the agent's face. Edward nearly flinched away under the sudden scrutiny, but, thankfully, it was over as quickly as it had begun.

"Follow me."

Edward did follow. He followed the Vice President into the sitting room and, even though the floor had begun to tilt, he made his usual visual scan of the room - exits, windows, corners. Another corner. No, wait, he'd done that one. Had he? What about - what about that one? Or... Oh, what did it matter? He had a gun and extensive military and Secret Service training: anyone stupid enough to be hiding in the corners of Frank's living room was about to be very dead in a second and anyway -

"Edward."

There were hands on his shoulders now, strong hands, pushing him down onto the sofa, and he realised with no small amount of alarm that he didn't remember walking this far into the room. "I'm on duty," he muttered uselessly, leaning forward where he sat in the hopes it would clear the rushing in his ears. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and tried to order the room to stop spinning. It did not comply.

"You're off duty now," Mr. Underwood said, squeezing his shoulder kindly. His footsteps clicked away for a minute, and Edward listened absently to a faint conversation at the threshold to the kitchen. "Claire, would you fetch some ice-water? Meechum's been taken ill. And I suppose we'd better call the Secret Service, too."

"I'll call Dr. Marcus, as well. He won't mind coming up on a Sunday, for us."

Alright, this was getting out of hand already. Edward shook his head, even though neither of the Underwoods were looking in his direction, and forced himself to his feet. He'd been through worse. This was nothing. "That won't be necessary, ma'am," he stated, as firmly as he could. "I'm alright now, thank you..."

Mr. Underwood sighed. "Maybe not the doctor, Claire, Meechum's liable to bolt. I think he's fine, anyway, just a little fever, probably the same bug everyone's been down with." There was lots of clicking then - Claire's delicate stilettos in one direction and Mr. Underwood's leather shoes in another, back toward him. "Now, really, Edward, I must insist. Think of the media frenzy if word gets out that my bodyguard worked himself to death."

Edward laughed - or tried to, but all that came out was a weird, strangled noise that made him hate himself some more, and the room wobbled violently.

"Steady!" cried Frank, stepping up just in time to catch him before he pitched forward. "See, I told you. Down you go."

This time, Edward complied. Tunnel vision closed in and allowed him only glimpses of the box ceiling as Frank guided him back to the sofa. Before he knew it, he was stretched out on his back the length of the couch, and someone was lifting his legs onto the cushions. All he could think about were his dirty Target shoes on that white vintage sofa. He felt his eyes close without permission.

Something cold was placed on his forehead, and he felt himself shiver.

"Would you like me to call a car for you?" asked Mr. Underwood, softly.

They had always been kind to him, but this was embarrassing. "'M on duty," he heard himself say. "...Sir."

"Where do you live?" Frank pressed. "Let's send you home."

"A ways away." His voice sounded like it was coming to him across the length of a football field.

"Where? Other side of the city? How far?"

"Far."

"Meechum?" Frank sounded concerned now.

"Miles. Miles and miles, sir." Edward knew he was drifting off, and he was appalled, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Maybe if he just rested his eyes for a minute, he'd be fine and he could go back to work.

Claire's stilettos echoed back into the room. "Let him rest, Francis," she said sweetly. Meechum felt some adjustment being made to the cold thing on his face. "David can take him home in the morning."

Edward sighed. "Miles and miles," he repeated in a whisper.


End file.
